


Sleepy Paris

by isloremipsumafterall



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: F/M, Sleepy Hollow AU
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-04-17
Updated: 2015-04-27
Packaged: 2018-03-23 10:17:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,820
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3764383
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/isloremipsumafterall/pseuds/isloremipsumafterall
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After giving her life to save the Queen from what looked like the creature from the devil Constance is amazed when she wakes up four hundred years later; struggling with the knowledge that she is one of two Witnesses and the modern world she comes to rely on her new partner in all of this and other Witness, Porthos, a cop who's past with the supernatural has caught up to haunt him.</p><p>Together they'll save the world. Or witness it's very destruction.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Cut off the head and pray that he's dead

Despite all the chaos going on around her Constance couldn’t help but note that the palace still looked unusually neat.

The white marbled stairs should have been stained with blood but the fatal wounds of the soldiers that lay dead before her didn’t drip any blood and upon a closer inspection the smell of burning flesh tickled her nose.

It was like someone had jammed a poker against these wounds right after they were made or, though it seemed impossible, during.

Some of the soldiers were familiar to her, she’d seen them trained in the yard and had even worked beside them to help the queen and for one brief moment she was overwhelmed with guilt and the knowledge that their families would have to be informed.

She bit the inside of her cheek to force herself back to reality; these were certainly her comrades but nothing could be done for them now while the battle still went on and Queen Anne was still in danger.

Running up the stairs and doing her best to avoid doing any more damage to the bodies Constance raced to the Queen’s quarters, hoping she could make it to them in time to stop Rochefort’s plans.

The ex-soldier of France and traitor had waited to attack until Constance had been sent away to deliver a message to Anne’s loyal friends Ninon and Samara.

She’d just sat down to enjoy some tea with them after giving them the letter Anne had entrusted her with when Fleur had burst into the room, out of breathe and shaking, declaring that the palace was under siege, yet reports showed that it was just one man.

“Rochefort,” Constance yelled, slamming the doors open and drawing her sword in one quick movement, “Step away from her Majesty.”

The scene before her nearly chilled her to her bones, it wasn’t the Queen pressed into the corner that scared her but Rochefort himself; or rather the mockery of Rochefort that was before her.

He still wore the patch over his eye where Anne had stabbed him after he tried to kidnap her, but his skin looked like it was barely clinging to his bones, pale and nearly translucent. The one eye that she could still see showed no white, only a bright red that bled into a blue that was a much darker shade than she remembered from before. In his hand was a sword that appeared to have been thrust into a fire it was still red hot and she could practically feel the heat from where she stood.

She swallowed, remembering the wounds of the soldiers she had seen on her way in, tightening her grip on her sword.

While Constance had gone to church every Sunday as every good French woman should she could safely say she had never believed in the devil until that very moment, staring down at Rochefort and whispering a quick prayer.

“Constance,” Anne choked out, she looked unharmed, but was wide eyed with worry. “You must be careful, he’s-”

Before she could finish her sentence Rochefort let out a roar of anger, swinging his sword in Anne’s direction and the Queen just barely ducked as it neatly cut into the wall, showering her with tiny pieces of the stone and Constance’s resolve grew then, unable to stop her own growl of anger at Rochefort’s treachery.

With her sword in one hand she managed to dig out her pistol, holding them both facing Rochefort and in an unwavering voice told him, “Back away from her Majesty or I will be forced to end this.”

Rochefort swung her way, laughing deeply and bowing in mockery towards her.

“And what will the great servant of the Queen, Constance Bonacieux, do to stop me?”

Constance scowled, fury written across her face; even back when Rochefort had been in service to France the two of them had never gotten along.

She’d always suspected him of being up to something and every time the man had bowed out of the room he’d shot her a look; sometimes of triumph sometimes of fury depending who of the two of them had controlled the room better that day.

Always bowing in mockery like Constance had not earned her place in the palace and by Anne’s side.

Not another word was spoken as Constance dodged a swing towards her, dropping her sword and ducking to the side but recovering quickly enough to swing around to face Rochefort again and fire the pistol in her hand, shooting him straight through the heart.

The next breathe he took was a sickening gurgling noise, turning to face her once more, blood fell from his lips and Constance nearly sighed in relief that it was over so quickly until Rochefort started laughing and wiped the blood away.

It was as though the wound meant nothing to him at all.

Her eyes widened as that blade swung down again, catching the fabric of her blouse as she jerked herself away and the heat of the blade was so hot that it left a red mark on her skin, making her hiss in pain and scramble for her sword.

She was too late though, grabbing it only in time for Rochefort to catch his bearings once more and then there was unbearable heat, his sword having run clean through her and she screamed as he twisted in in vicious victory.

The heat of the blade had either stopped working then or something else had happened but the metal bit into her without cauterizing the wounds at once, blood spilling from her stomach.

Her eyes watered and she knew Anne was screaming her name as Rochefort pulled the sword out, chuckling darkly and kicking her side, forcing her to the floor and writhing in pain.

She heard rather than saw him walk away and towards Anne, gritting her teeth and bringing a hand up to wipe in the tears from her eyes and clutched the sword still in her other hand, forcing herself up in spite of the pain.

Clearly Rochefort had not been expecting that, not even looking back at her as she stumbled towards him and raised the sword, putting all her strength into it as she swung it down, cutting deep into his neck.

They fell at the same time, Constance still stumbling forward from her momentum and landed at Rochefort’s side.

Any pain she felt was wiped away in the victory of seeing him fall, no longer able to hurt her friends and finally paying for his crimes.

He was mouthing curses to her in the moment he died and she could still hear Anne calling her name as her eyes closed, darkness seeping in.

Her last vision was of her own blood mixing with Rochefort’s as they both bled out to death.

~~

She was being suffocated, screaming with dirt in her throat and getting into her lungs and fingers clawing at the ground above her until she hit air, dragging herself up and choking as she tried to catch her breath.

Her hands were stained with the dirt, the dress she was buried in looked worse and her eyes winced when she looked up into the glaring light at what must have been the entrance of the hidden cavern she was in.

Constance sucked in air and shook, from the cold or the shock she had no idea but clear of one thing.

She was alive and very much shouldn’t have been.


	2. of history and loss

The bell on top of the door rang out in the mostly quiet diner; it being so late at night that most people had scurried back off to their homes but no one was surprised to see the local Sherriff Treville and the local law enforcement town prodigy, Porthos enter.

It was well known that the two of them tended to take the night shift and stopped by for a cup of coffee to wake them where the nip of the cold Paris air might fail to those so used to it.

Porthos nodded to the waitress, Alice, a lively woman whom he had dated once and remained good friends with since who in turn shot him a bemused look; clearly she hadn’t missed him stumble in surprise when his phone rang as he entered the door and glanced at the caller.

As they took their seats the phone went off again and Treville raised an eyebrow at him.

“Shall I wait for you to answer it?” It hadn’t taken long after Porthos started working for Treville to know when his Captain was being sarcastic versus serious and right now Treville was somewhere between both.

Chances were he had caught the name on the caller ID then.

Porthos swiped the ignore button and shoved it in his coat pocket.

“It’s nothing.” The last thing he wanted to do tonight on Halloween was talk to his old foster brother, Charon.

Even thinking of his name stirred up bad memories of a night nearly twelve years ago.

Treville inclined his head with a grunt, not buying Porthos’ lie at all but standing up to go to the washroom; leaving Porthos with his thoughts.

“Not going to take that?” Alice asked, setting a cup of coffee down in front of him just as the phone went off again and he dug it out once more to hit ignore, tempted to turn it off but knowing he couldn’t.

She must have noticed his scowl because a hand rested on his shoulder a second later, “Is everything all right?”

“Just…something I have to deal with.” How many times had he used that excuse back when he’d been dating Alice and gotten called in on case?

Guilt still made him wince but Alice just smiled softly at him in that understanding way she had, the hand on his shoulder squeezing briefly before she let go.

“Then you should deal with it, and if you need to talk about it later I’ll be here.” Alice had always been a little more perceptive than him when it came to what was going on with Porthos and with a rough sigh Porthos stared at the phone, waiting for it to ring again.

He didn’t have to wait long, sure enough Charon called back quickly enough.

“Porthos.” He was brisk in his greeting, wanting to get this over with. Another night he might have been okay with Charon calling but this one…

“Help,” Charon didn’t waste time either, sounding out of breathe and near desperate in a way Porthos hadn’t heard from him.

Not since that night.

Not since the incident happened and he turned his back on his foster siblings; a regret he had never truly gotten past of.

“Charon,” Porthos banged his knees on the table as he stood, “Where are you?”

“The woods. Porthos, there’s something here. Something like before.”

Porthos nearly groaned, clenching a fist with the hand not holding the phone. No good came from Charon in the woods and despite their now bitter history it was best if Porthos came to pick him up before another officer did.

“Give me the area, I’ll be there shortly.”

Charon rattled off the location, near the old mill that they had played at as children and Porthos hung up after a quick goodbye and another promise to be there shortly.

“Tell Treville I’ll meet up with him on patrol later, I’ve got someone to pick up.” He asked Alice as he headed out the door, she looked like she wanted to stop him before pursing her lips and nodding.

He still wished things had worked out between them but didn’t have the time to dwell on it now, Charon’s message still on his mind.

Like before.

Like when he, Charon, and their foster sister Flea had been wandering in the woods and seen something they shouldn’t have –couldn’t have; something he’d denied and caused a rift in their relationship ever since.

A full moon meant that he had better light as he arrived at the mill, grabbing his phone to give Charon a call showed him that he had missed a call from Charon; frowning and concerned when Charon didn’t pick up as he called him back.

The ringing tone from behind him alerted him to Charon’s phone, picking it up and looking for signs of his foster brother but seeing none.

“Charon.” He bellowed, more force of habit than anything as yelling a siblings name might be, “Charon I’m here.”

There was no response the wind blowing right through him and making him shudder.

He upholstered his weapon and tried yelling for Charon again. Keeping his weapon cocked in one hand while with his other he scrambled to listen to the voice message left on his phone that might give him a hint where his brother might be.

“It’s coming.” Charon sounded terrified, there was a thundering noise behind him that Porthos couldn’t identify for a minute before a horse neighed and looking down at the ground he could see Charon’s footprints partly covered up with hoof prints and leading towards the barn.

“I know you haven’t believed brother but he’s here.” Charon cut out after a loud bang, the closing of the barn door.

Carefully with his gun out Porthos stepped closer, sliding his phone away to give himself better control. The barn door was slightly ajar now, creaking open slowly and slamming shut with the wind.

“Charon?” Porthos called out again though softer this time, opening the foot with his door and pointing his gun straight ahead, it was hard to make out anything however and he cursed, dragging his flashlight out and turning it on.

He nearly yelled at the sight; despite all his years as a police officer nothing could have prepared him for seeing his foster brother’s body lying in a pool of blood.

And missing his head.

His attempt to rush forward against all the logic telling him not to was stopped by the whinnying of a horse from the back of the barn.

“Come out.” He growled, grip on his gun tightening as his flashlight scanned the back.

Only the glint of red alerted him to the intruders’ location, shining his light quickly over there and freezing when he realized that the glistening red he had seen was the horse’s eyes.

On top of the horse the rider carried a sword that between one blink and the next glowed a hot red but Porthos barely took time to note it, gaping at where the horseman’s head was.

Or more importantly, where it wasn’t.

The horses snort was the only warning he got as it tore towards him, ducking to the side and the heat of the sword ran over him, had he not had that brief warning it would have cleaved straight through his neck.

Porthos stumbled but recovered quick enough to aim his gun and fire as the horseman rode away.

~~

“I’m telling you what I saw.” Porthos argued with Treville as soon as he got to the precinct, having been shuffled back there as the medical examiners came to get Charon’s body.

His body covered in a white sheet would haunt Porthos’ dreams tonight along with the glowing red eyes and even dangerous glow of from the sword.

“A Halloween trick.” Treville told him. “You were traumatized by the sight of Charon, nothing more Porthos. You just need to take a few days, recover from this tragedy.”

“I need to work and find his killer.” Porthos shot back quick enough, wanting to punch the wall next to him in desperation.

He knew he sounded crazy but he had thought Treville would have his back in this, at least give him the benefit of the doubt because this time he knew what he saw.

“You need to calm down and go home.” Treville repeated, “You’ve suffered a loss Porthos.”

“I’m not leaving.” At least Treville knew he was serious about that because the older man sighed and nodded in resignation.

“All right, but you’re not working patrol. Here,” He shoved a file towards Porthos, “A woman was found at the side of the road claiming to be from the 1600s, she needs to be processed.”

“I don’t want the crazies.” Porthos growled, low in his throat, it was only force of habit that his eyes skimmed over the file and he stopped.

“If you don’t want it I’ll assign it to Athos.” Treville reached for the file to take it back and Porthos stepped away, holding the file to him.

“Changed my mind.” He muttered and ducked out before Treville could question him.

In truth he just wanted to know why this supposed woman from the 1600’s described her last memory as fighting a man with a glowing red sword and the devil’s eyes; and what, if anything, it had to do with Charon’s killer in the here and now.


End file.
